


G'Morning, Handsome

by Funkspiel



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a little sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 05:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12810615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel
Summary: Every day, Theseus gets to spend his day with his love. It starts off soft and slow, wrapped in white sheets and surrounded by the soft wood walls of the home his family had made but he and Newt had abandoned, until now. It’s filled with life again, his ancestral home. Filled with love. He wakes as he always wakes, tired but happy when his blurry vision focuses to find a pair of dark brown eyes already staring at him, hair askew in a way terribly too adorable for someone who responded to a title as fearsome as “Director of Magical Security”.





	G'Morning, Handsome

Every day, Theseus gets to spend his day with his love. It starts off soft and slow, wrapped in white sheets and surrounded by the soft wood walls of the home his family had made but he and Newt had abandoned, until now. It’s filled with life again, his ancestral home. Filled with love. He wakes as he always wakes, tired but happy when his blurry vision focuses to find a pair of dark brown eyes already staring at him, hair askew in a way terribly too adorable for someone who responded to a title as fearsome as “Director of Magical Security”.

“G’morning, handsome,” Theseus says as he always does, and relishes in the cute, conflicted furl that grows across the bridge of Percival’s nose. 

“Theseus,” he croaks, “Where are we?”

“On vacation, love. Remember?”

His brow furrows, and with it the muscles of Theseus’ heart wrinkle. He hates to see him struggle, to see the cogs turn, and long ago he had learned to reach out and smooth that furrow away.

“It’s our last day, I promise,” he says, “You can go back to MACUSA and your rather unhealthy work habits first thing when you get back to New York tomorrow, you bloody lunatic.”

That eases him. Soothes the tension from his muscles like water escaping a dam. He melts into the mattress like it’s the last time he’ll get to enjoy it, and Theseus supposes in a way, it is. He smiles, soft and small, and he watches him struggle between the urge to rise and be productive, and stay and laze around.

Theseus rubs his shoulder and heaves himself from the bed with a soft, “Stop it, I can practically see the smoke rising from your ears. Rest a little while longer, I’ll draw you up some liquid ash.”

“You mean coffee,” Graves mumbles into his pillow, pleased and heavy lidded. “Also known as liquid gold.”

“See? Even you are relating the taste with dirt and  _you like it.”_

He snorts, smiling when Theseus pecks the corner of his mouth to start their day.

He draws up his coffee the way Percival rarely allows himself to enjoy it. With cream and honey, warm and thick. Finds his love twisted in sheets that frame his body the way sculptors captured masterpieces. Long, lean lines finally free of stress after years of scars.

They curl into the study, Graves in the window seat and Theseus on the sofa, and they read. They let the rain lull them through a lazy day of slow, wet kisses and glancing touches. Finger sandwiches for lunch, a trip into the field to feed the hippogriffs after. Time comes and goes, but Theseus does not dread it.

Percival, however, does. Theseus can sense it in the way Percival insists on touching him more. The fleeting looks, the long eyes; goodbye in every glance. Theseus makes them dinner, but he’s long learned not to bother with desert. Because Percival brings desert the moment he crawls into Theseus’ lap, belly soft with meal, and loops his arms around his neck.

Theseus purrs and moves to kiss his neck, to taste his treat, but Percival leans back just out of reach with a chuckle.

“I’m trying to thank you,” Percival chides, laughing with Theseus whines, “Then why are you pulling away?”

“Come on, you menace,” he says, leaning forward so his bangs – soft and productless, just as Theseus loved him most – kiss Theseus’ forehead in little tickling glances. He smiles down on him like an angel he’s somehow managed to catch around the waist, and Theseus doesn’t ever intend to let him go. “Listen.”

“I’m listening.”

Percival stills, and his hands move from his neck to cup the sharpness of Theseus’ jaw. He stares at him for a long time, and for a moment Theseus thinks maybe,  _just maybe_ , he knows. And he hates himself for even hoping, because the beat is gone in a moment, swept away by the continuing crescendo of life, and Percival doesn’t know. He never will.

“I don’t know how you convinced me to a vacation of all things,” he huffs, the wrinkles around his eyes making Theseus’ belly flutter, seeing how  _happy_  he is. “I imagine it involved a bad meeting and a lot of drink, since I don’t remember. But regardless… Thank you. For convincing me. This has been nice.”

“Just nice?”

Percival flicks his cheek and Theseus sqwuaks playfully, indignantly.

“More than nice,” he says. “Perfect. I almost don’t want it to end.”

Theseus stills, as he always does. His fingers dig a little deeper into the softening give of Percival’s hips, and he braces himself.

“Almost?”

“Yes, well, you know me,” Percival chuckles, a twinge of self-mocking in his tone as he continues. “I’d be lost without my job. As much as it drives me insane.”

“You love what you do,” Theseus says through a smile, but the tone is weak and his love catches it.

“I love a lot of things,” he says, leaning down to purr into the redhead’s mouth. “I love you.”

Theseus holds him tighter, relishing the moment like a beloved book, the pages worn and dog-earred like a familiar friend.

“I love you too,” he says, forcing the feeling down, and stands in a rush to sweep Graves up into his arms. “Every bit of you, even the utterly mad part.”

He kisses obnoxiously loud kisses into Graves’ neck, making him shout and beat at his shoulders as Theseus carries them to their bed.

“As if you can talk, your work is just as absorbing!”

“It is,” Theseus admits, “But lately, I don’t mind at all.”

“See? I’m sure you’re bored of me,” Percival says, the sound cut off into a gasp when Theseus bites him, sucking hard and searing. Branding him with his love, unable to translate the feeling into words, so he uses his teeth and his tongue.

Leaves him bruised. Kisses it softly.

“You ass,” Percival gasps, but he’s wild and grinning, “You did that on purpose. How am I going to hide that?”

“Beneath all your gorgeously ridiculous layers, I’m sure,” Theseus purrs.

He kisses away whatever retort his lover has. Buries him into the sheets, curls their hands into vices that pin his long time friend into the bed. He crowds him down into the white curves of cotton and he kisses and worships and nips and licks. Loving the clench of Percival’s fingers in his hair, the soft part of his lips, the sound of his sighs. Pets the entrance of his body until he’s growling for more, and then just goes slower.

He navigates Graves’ body like a well loved road home; the path familiar only because he had the courage to get lost in it. Touching his favorite places, just the way he likes it. Drawing familiar sounds, the feel of muscles writhing. Brown eyes haze into need, and Theseus helps his lover lose himself to the tide of the moment they share. Licks him open, large hands parting soft cheeks. Edging him until finally he fills him, riding the crests of Graves’ cries until they reach that shining place together.

And when it is done and they return to their skin, Theseus wraps Percival in the white sheets he found him in that morning, a soft cleaning spell beneath his breath. He forces himself to stay awake as he watches Percival succumb to sleep – a muzzy, “I love you,” soft and fleeting, chasing him into his dreams. He’s soft, in sleep. Younger. Theseus watches him for as long as he can, and every night he wonders if he’ll see it, when it happens. When he’ll reset.

He never does.

Instead he wakes, and as though he is as trapped as Graves, he too feels “reset”. But he doesn’t regret it, not a single day of it, not even after nearly half a year. Six months since they found him, alive but not quite right. Caught in a vice of magic, not quite free. As much a prisoner to his own mind as he had been in his flesh in the dank, dark cell they had found him in. Free, but trapped all the same.

So Theseus tries to make it as painless as he can. He starts his day as he always does. Soft and smiling, staring at a pair of dark brown eyes already looking back at him, hair askew in a way terribly too adorable for someone who once responded to a title as fearsome as “Director of Magical Security”.

“G’morning, handsome,” Theseus says as he always does, and relishes in the cute, conflicted furl that grows across the bridge of Percival’s nose. 

“Theseus,” he croaks, “Where are we?”

“On vacation, love. Remember?”

Percival’s brows furrow, and patiently, Theseus smooths the wrinkles away.


End file.
